“Oui,my papa. I was born in France, but now that the war with England is over, I am here to reclaim my ancestral home.”
“You are but a few miles from it, my lord. Your relative, Mr. Fennimore, is in residence.”
“You know him then?”
“I knowofhim.” Startled, Hetty realized she’d forgotten her ruse. It was becoming tiring. “A groom don’t hobnob with such as him,” she said in a growl.
Fortunately, he appeared too distracted to notice her appalling effort to speak like a servant. And she’d forgotten to earlier. As a Frenchman new to England, he may not wonder at it, so she decided not to try it again.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was riding up from London. Bandits shot at me but missed. I outrode them, but as I congratulated myself at having lost them, I ran into a low branch.Zut!It almost knocked my head off. I must have fallen off my horse.” He gave a rueful grin. “But I digress. What is the name of my savior?”
Hetty bit her lip. A name hadn’t occurred to her. She plucked her groom’s name from the air. “Simon Rawlings, my lord.”
He nodded. “My most heartfelt thanks, Simon.” As if the gesture hurt him, his dark lashes dropped.
It seemed he had accepted her. Hetty leaned back. She began to relax in his company. Masquerading as a man had unsuspected advantages as she could study this attractive male at close quarters. She changed her mind when he pulled off his cravat and loosened his shirt. The dark hair at the base of his strong brown throat held a certain fascination but made her nervous. The room suddenly seemed to close in.
She prodded at the fire, which was burning nicely, with a stick. She wrapped her arms around her knees. “Highwaymen ain’t been round here for years.”
“If that’s what they were.”
“Who else could they be?” Hetty asked, swinging around to look at him.
“I don’t know, young Simon.”
It worried him, that was obvious. Could it have been more than a chance attack?
He frowned and pointed to two dusty bottles on the shelf. “Would that be whiskey? It’s usual to keep some for lost travelers such as we.”
When Hetty shook one of the bottles, it was half full. She pulled out the cork and smelled it. “It is whiskey. We can use it to sterilize your wound and then we should cover it somehow to prevent infection.”
“Does it smell brackish or reedy?” he asked.
She shook her head as spicy oak smells greeted her. It reminded her of her father’s favorite Scottish malt. “No, it’s still good.”
“Merci.” He reached for the bottle. “Sit beside me, Simon.”
Hetty’s throat tightened at the thought of joining him on the cot. Desperate, she tried to think of the way Simon walked and his mannerisms. She strode over to the bed with a masculine swagger and handed the bottle to the baron. He took a long swallow and gave it back.
“Drink, Simon.”
On the narrow cot, Hetty tried to keep a space between them. She spread her knees and rested a hand on her thigh as she’d seen Simon do. The position made her feel oddly exposed. Hot and flustered, she crossed her legs at the ankle. She held the bottle up to her nose. While she recognized whiskey, sherry and a glass of wine with dinner were the strongest drinks she’d had.
Hetty took a manly swig and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The fiery liquid burned its way down her throat into her stomach. It took her breath. She gasped and coughed. As she spluttered, his lordship moved closer and slapped her on the back. The shock of his touch made her rigid.
“I gather you’re not used to it?”
His smile had an odd effect on her heart, which gave a little leap. It was quite the most attractive smile she’d seen, his teeth white against his olive skin. He took the bottle from her and put it to his lips. After another swallow, he offered it to her again.
“No, thank you, my lord,” she rasped.
“Go on,” he urged. “’Twill warm you.”
When Hetty took the bottle from him, his fingers collided with hers. Acutely aware of his touch on her skin, she took a hasty gulp. The liquid slipped down the back of her throat and spread through her to warm her extremities, right down to her toes.
The baron took the bottle back. Hetty’s muscles seemed to have loosened. Aware she’d slumped on the cot, she leapt up. Dust rose from the rug as she settled again by the fire, now warm both inside and out, she leaned back on her hands and straightened her legs in what she considered a mannish pose. Conscious of his every movement, she watched him stretch his long legs over the cot while the room filled with the fire’s crackle and hiss.
Hetty didn’t consider herself sheltered from men’s company. She’d been kissed at a ball held at Rosecroft Hall after she and a young man strolled in the garden. She hadn’t liked him much beyond his looks. He was the spoiled son of a wealthy man, and when he returned to London the following day, she hadn’t missed him. But it was the memory of that kiss which had the power to thrill her rather than the man who delivered it. And he had not affected her equilibrium quite the way the baron managed to do with little effort. Perhaps it was the situation they were in, but he made her wish she wore her prettiest dress and he would gaze at her in quite a different way.
